Whenever Husband and I visit another country, we return with a taste of what the people are about after a week of personal observation. And it’s an impression we usually agree on. For the Italians, it was their sense of style. On the dreariest early morning train platform in Florence, we were amazed at how effortlessly put together the commuters looked. Fabulous scarves thrown askew, leather satchels hanging from gloved hands, languid postures leaned against tile walls reading carelessly folded newspapers; the Italian people look gorgeous even with wildly untamed eyebrows and wind-blown hair. Whether they spend meaningful time on it or not, their layers of clothing and casual cosmopolitan manner works. They are elegant.
The Irish have an elegant spirit. The clothing layers not so much, and the wind-blown hair looks wind blown. Their beauty emanates from the collective soul of the Irish people, their way of looking sideways at the world around them with a bemusement that is palpable and touching. The traffic signs on their screamingly narrow two-way roads warn of “acute bends” up ahead. These are obviously Gaelic words that can be translated into English as “Aiiieeeeee!” Likewise the reassuring “calming traffic” notices that mean “Ahhhhhhhh” and come with a deep exhale and possible change of underwear. I don’t know the statistics on vehicular accidents or injuries, especially in light of the ubiquitous pubs and high speed limit on almost all roads in the Republic, but we never saw police cars issuing tickets or fender-benders on the side of the road. Perhaps because the roads have no sides to stop on. Or just as likely due to the invincible luck of the Irish in all matters of life and divine fate.
There is a sweetness of expression evident in even the most everyday verbal exchange. We walked into a pub in Blessington on our drive of the Military Road, but departed after a brief look at the menu. It was standard pub fare and we were looking for something a bit different. But there was nothing in town that suited us better so we went back to the first place. As we walked through the door, the server who’d shown us the menu gave us a bright smile and sang out, “Ah, so you’ve returned to me! Come take a seat.” The food was nothing special, as the menu had suggested, but the atmosphere was warm and we felt welcome. As it turns out, feeling welcome in Ireland is what it’s all about.
In New York, “brilliant” and “gorgeous” sound pretentious. And the way we say them, they are. But an older Dublin woman being served a bowl of sweet potato soup and brown bread exclaiming, “Oh my, this is gorgeous!” is nothing short of charming. Or a clerk looking to sell us an umbrella on a rainy day offering a sincere “Brilliant!” when we show that we have one. A lost sale isn’t brilliant and there’s nothing gorgeous about orange soup, unless you look beneath the surface and see the twinkle behind those Irish eyes.
Today’s Fotos show street scenes in Dublin, including the Famine Memorial. Originally commissioned for display in Boston, Rowan Gillespie’s bronze statues were deemed too depressing by Boston’s mayor so they remain standing, with true Irish irony, by the docks in Dublin.
rent-a-ride
human statue on grafton street
energetic busker
remembering the Great Famine of the 1840s